


Had Enough?

by Canon_Is_Relative



Category: Firefly
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Somewhat established relationship, fighting while fucking, fucking while fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:12:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3873412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started in the war, but it sure as hell didn’t end there. This itch of his that’s near impossible to ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Had Enough?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [millygal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/gifts).



> Thanks again and again to milly_gal for her generosity in the Nepal relief campaign. This story challenged me, I'm not going to lie, but in the end it's something I'm rather proud of so I hope it works for you, bb!
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, dragonfly and ImpishTubist.

It started in the war, but it sure as hell didn’t end there. This itch of his that’s near impossible to ignore.

 

Mal, though, he knows his way around the impossible. From farm boy to sergeant in just a handful of years, would you look at that? And it had been simple, life itself had been simple or near enough, ’til that last year in the ranks: see, there was good and there was evil and there was the work in between, doing what had to be done. Then his promotion came and what do you know, nothing was simple anymore. Every act took on the appearance of deadly importance and dead’s what you’d be if you took it lightly. Thinking ten moves ahead and holding tight onto himself, holding himself tight to impossible standards. But he could do it — he had done it. Malcolm Reynolds was capable of mighty impossible things.

 

But then there came the itch. He’s capable, but he ain’t no damned island. Nah, he thinks, not an island. He thinks of himself more like a wave when he lets himself think about it at all. A wave, only in need of something to break against. Someone. Someone to throw himself against, his whole self, not holding back and not fearing they’re gonna break beneath him.

 

He’d had Zoe, then, back in the war. Still has her in the ways that really matter, steady as a rock beside him and most days that’s enough. But now alongside all his cargo he has a half-helpless crew. Not more’n a year ago it would have bothered him, the fact of his boat being populated by more civilians than soldiers. Now the only thing bothering him is how it doesn’t bother him because he wants them here. Wants his people to stay safe, stay true. Doesn’t want to look up to see the day when Kaylee, or Simon, lays hand on a pistol.

 

‘Course he’d also like it if they could all go a week without a temper tantrum or a shouting match on the bridge or a call so close even crazy little sister’s holding her breath when they turn tail and rabbit. But that just seems like too much to ask for some days. Days like today, for example, running hot, half a month from anywhere and that old familiar itch beneath his skin.

 

Ship’s too quiet and Mal makes his way down to the hold where Jayne’s in the corner punching a bag. Where Jayne keeps his eyes on Mal even as he keeps his fists driving into the bag and Mal’s out of his jacket and taping his knuckles, buzzing in his skin, without so much as a ‘Howdy’ spoke between them.

 

“Looking to throw some punches, Captain?”

 

“Might be I am,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “You looking to hit something what’ll hit you back?”

 

“You know me,” Jayne says, grins and cocks his head, devil-may-care attitude before he’s squaring off, rocking from foot to foot, that lightning-fast shift from thug for hire to lethal hitter that sets the blood rushing in Mal’s ears and he knows he’s got his lips pulled back from his teeth to mirror the feral grin Jayne’s directing at him and then he’s lunging, glancing a blow off Jayne’s shoulder and ducking under his returning elbow jab.

 

No holds barred, this is how they do it. When they do it, which ain’t often. Rough shouts of ‘Come on’ and ‘That the best you got?’ give way to muted grunts and throaty gasps and the first time Jayne lands a solid blow he pulls back just that extra inch to look at Mal, and whether it’s a sign to Mal that Jayne still knows who he is, where they are, or if he really wouldn’t be surprised to see Mal reach for his pistol and end him, it doesn’t matter because Mal lunches forward, gets in an uppercut and bloodies Jayne’s lip. Jayne laughs, his crimson grin garish and daring, and surges to meet him.

 

Mal needs this. _Ta ma duh_ , does he ever. The whole ‘verse shrunk down to just two hard bodies, four fists and four feet and the unvarnished picture of strength and power and release that they paint between them in blood and sweat. He needs this.

 

Wants it, too, like he doesn’t let himself want much else for himself. Jayne slams into him, clean sweat and gunmetal, rust and salt with apples on his breath. Mal wants this. There’s other things he might want, if he let himself. Softer things. Finer things. Hair that flows like rainwater and the dip and dance of soft curves under his open palm.

 

Jayne ain’t soft, and Mal finds himself laughing as he bites the floor, curls his open hand into a fist to push himself up. Metal grating digs into his knees and there’s rust beneath his fingernails. His heaving breath echoes in the cavernous hold and blood and sweat mingle in his nose and he floats for a minute. The old itch, that buzz, has spread out to every finger and toe and he’s humming with it, aware of every inch of his skin. Sits back on his heels to watch Jayne stepping back, pulling off his shirt and wiping his face. Not soft, Mal thinks, and that’s perfect. Jayne could take him _out._ He could throw himself at Jayne like he had the hounds of hell on his heels, and Jayne would meet him there.

 

“Had enough?” Jayne asks, and Mal reaches out a hand. Jayne begins to pull him up and they each try to flip the other at the same time, landing on their asses and rolling over each other, grappling for the advantage, and Jayne crows with laughter, blood on his teeth and a glint in his eye. Mal watches him, the pull and play of muscles across his chest, the way his scars catch the light. Watching for Jayne’s tells to catch the next big blow before it lands, but he’s slow and Jayne’s still laughing when he gets Mal up and pinned in a corner. Mal brings his hands up to protect his face, twisting to duck the blows that aren’t falling and then thrashing against Jayne’s hold on him, clipping his jaw with an elbow before Jayne’s got both wrists pinned up above his head, the full weight of his body bearing down on Mal.

 

It started in the war, but it sure as hell didn’t end there. And this sure as hell ain’t over now. When they do this, which ain’t often but enough times now that Mal knows how this goes, it ain’t over ’til it’s over but just as surely it don’t start until it’s past all point of pretending that there’s nothing going on here. And Mal still has some fight in him.

 

“Had enough, Captain?” Jayne asks again, grinning down at him, his body one long line of muscle and flesh and oh, _hell_ no, Mal hasn’t had near enough.

 

He bucks his hips, tries to grapple Jayne down with a heel to the back of his knee, kicks his hips up against Jayne’s again and gets his hands free and they crash back against the airlock door. And then Jayne is _growling_ and rutting back against him, still trying to land blows as their groans turn feral and heated and _tian xia suo you de ren dou gai si_ , he’s hard. Mal pins Jayne to the door and forces his thigh between Jayne’s leg, pressure but no purchase. He looks Jayne in the eye and asks, “Had enough?”

 

Jayne’s mouth, gone slack, twists into a sneer and he wrenches one hand free of Mal’s hold on him, works it between their bodies, jerks his own fly down and almost gets his hand inside before Mal catches him. ‘Ain’t sly if it’s your own hand,’ Jayne had said, first time they did this. Goading him. Mal smacks Jayne’s hand away, holds him against the door with one arm across his chest, gets his hand in Jayne’s pants and starts jerking him, as rough and dirty as the way they fight. That’s how it works. Mal is who he is. He thinks quick and acts quicker, he’s adaptable and at the end of the day he’s the god damn captain. And Jayne is Jayne. Solid, blunt, and unyielding as a stone. And with a word or a first or a gun, either of them could take the other out. That’s how this works. They’re here because they want to be.

 

“ _Ta ta de hun dan_ ,” Jayne’s head smacks back against the door and his hands, both of them free now, near break off the clasps on Mal’s pants and he’s got them pushed half down his thighs before Mal knows what he’s up to but the chill air of the hold against his overheated skin is like a blessing while he draws a long ragged breath and then Jayne’s got his hands on him, fingers strong and blunt and crushing Mal against him, grinding his thigh up against Mal’s crotch and Mal falters, loses his rhythm and drops his head to Jayne’s shoulder, white hot pleasure building in his belly as he ruts blindly against him.

 

“That all, that all you got,” Jayne’s voice is rough, rumbling straight through Mal and he’s about to let out a moan, got his mouth open against Jayne’s shoulder, and when he realizes that he bites down hard, gets his teeth into the muscle and feels it like a chain reaction roll down Jayne’s body, thinks Jayne’s a heartbeat away from just picking him up, crashing them down and rutting him into the floor. He’s losing control fast, they both are, Jayne with a steady stream of growled curses on his lips, taunts too, asking again and then again, “Had enough? Had enough, Captain?”

 

“Jayne you shut that mouth of yours or I will shut it for you.” Mal gets a better grip on Jayne and kicks up his pace, moves the hand he has holding Jayne in place against the wall to press his thumb to the hollow of his throat and angles himself away, tries to slow the desperate rhythm of his hips against Jayne’s because so help him he’s not gonna be the first to break this time.

 

It’s this itch of his, takes the buzz in the back of his head and dials it up, fever-pitch and it’s like he’s shaking out of his skin. He’ll throw himself in the path of a bullet or against a willing body with equal passion and he’s giving everything he has to this moment right here and he’s halfway to lost anyway, halfway to wanting a mouth on his and gentle fingers in his hair, halfway to drowning when Jayne laughs, voice in his ear asking just how Mal’s gonna do that, how he’s gonna shut him up. “Got something better you want me to do with my mouth, Mal?”

 

And that’s it, Mal shatters. Crashes, wave after wave and when he surfaces he’s not drowning anymore, he’s just a man in a body like anyone else. Sore as hell and it’s the pain that comes rolling in on pleasure’s heels that makes his vision sharp, see the triumph on Jayne’s face even though he’s sprawled out beneath him, a wreck from what Mal did to him, sheen of sweat not all that’s slicking up his bare skin, bruises blooming. Jayne thinks he’s won but Mal’s the one with clear eyes here so he falls back into him, brings Jayne off like he knows what the hell he’s doing and pulls away when Jayne shouts, leaves him to spill onto the cold floor. Mal feels the tremors that wrack through Jayne like he feels the turn of the engine in his bones and they’re left gasping, hands and knees and echoing walls. Mal finds his feet first, throws Jayne’s shirt at his head and Jayne snorts, concedes the point when he scrubs Mal’s mess off his belly with his own shirt.

 

War’s long done, Mal’s said more’n once. Often enough to know the answer he’s like to get. For some, they always say. For some it’ll never be over. _Serenity_ hums around him, end and beginning, and Jayne squares off in front of him, knuckles down, a grin and a taunt and an offer to finish what they started.


End file.
